


Show Them All You're Not the Ordinary Type

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Cutting, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more/update the tags as the story progresses, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm adding like everything that I can think of which is like nothing, M/M, Nightmares, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Possibly Triggering, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5048800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re all fuck ups.<br/>Brendon, Frank, and Patrick have suffered physical abuse as slaves, and the pressure threatens to break them. But at least they’ve found each other.<br/>You’d think the grass would be greener on the other side. But Ryan, Gerard, and Pete know firsthand that’s not always the case.<br/>With the forced decision to pick a slave on their eighteenth birthday tainting the day they finally leave their fucked up homes, what will Ryan, Gerard, and Pete do with the lives of the slaves, Brendon, Frank, and Patrick that they’ve been given?<br/>Mikey and Dallon are the rejects. Once slaves, now freemen, Mikey wants to find his brother and tell him he’s forgiven. Dallon wants to find his best friend, who he knows was devastated when his father sold him into slavery. Rescued by the kind Ray, they don’t know where to start. </p>
<p>(I apologize for any future butchering-of-facts I will inevitably do, since I have like no knowledge about any of this shit. I just happen to like Slave AUs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (chapter titles may come later)

**Author's Note:**

> I also apologize for the massive use of the term “boy” in this. It's all the guys I listed in the summary though, not just one, to clarify. I personally find it annoying, but there wasn’t that many other options for me to pick. As for the title, if I think of a better one, I’ll change it, but it comes from Let’s Kill Tonight by Panic! at the Disco. It was picked in like fifteen seconds though.

The boy was trying his damnedest to collapse and curl up into the fetal position, except the restrictions around his wrists and ankles, tied to the support beam in the trainer’s basement, prevented him. Tears streaked his face and dripped down his naked, trembling body, and the only sounds he made were harsh wheezes from the phallic gag inserted into his throat. Ribs stuck harshly out from the pale scarred skin.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The young boy curled up into his mother’s side with a whimper, but she didn’t react. Nothing. Not even a cruel word or a harsh smack, just distant eyes staring at the light from the lamp. She listlessly took the glass from the slightly shaking slave as he crawled up to her and handed the wineglass to the boy’s mother, backing away with the glass when she finished. That was how bad it was. She didn’t even hit the slaves anymore. The boy knew he should be grateful, but somehow the coldness was worse than the hurtful words and painful strikes.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy’s hands gripped his thighs as he fought to keep the sobs and cries inside as the whip landed again and again on his exposed back, spraying blood with each lash.  
“Stupid… slave… can’t… do… shit!” He heard his master yelling, heard the pacing, felt the fear and bile rising up in his throat, but tried desperately to keep it in, knowing it’d be worse for him if he struggled.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy tipped back the bottle, feeling the last of it drain down his throat. But it still wasn’t enough. He’d already had multiple shots, snorted some coke and smoked some weed, and gotten a drunken, high blowjob that frankly sucked, but it still couldn’t drown out the taunts in his head. The angry words from his baby brother before he ran out and was never seen from again.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy’s eyes flicked nervously from Mistress to Master, cringing and ducking his head as far down as the black leather collar would allow when the Master slapped him and snarled at him to never look at them without permission again. He remembered his last Master had then taken him into a massive, plush bedroom and let him sleep, and take off his collar, but he’d died, and this new Master had taken him. This one brought him into a similarly comfortable bedroom, but ignored his cries and slapped him until he shut up while thrusting into the boy as he was pressed down into the comforter, sobs shaking his body as punches rained down on him.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy scrambled back up, cowering away in a corner from the screaming figure shaking his fists at the boy’s mother.  
“No!” he cried feebly, and the woman’s eyes widened with horror, and she reached shakily towards the boy, but the screaming man simply swatted her hands away and advanced on the terrified boy.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy stared sadly at the setting sun. Where are you? He silently begged the bleeding red sky. The dying sun painted the clouds the same color as the river his body had shed after… that. He smiled bitterly. Of course. Trust the depressed teen to make such dramatic metaphors for his situation.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy loved his guardians very much, except they couldn’t find him. They’d tried, and the boy had to give them that, he knew they loved him just as much as he did they, but hours of searching Yellow Pages, the internet, the newspaper, anything, had turned up nothing. Nights of hope followed by crushing mornings.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon, Frank, and Patrick are sold. It's kind of obvious to whom, but their new owners might not be as great as the lack of initial abuse seems to suggest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback was very much appreciated. Not too happy with how this went, but I wanted to update quickly, and generally, attempts to rewrite fail. Also, I’m about as tech savvy as your grandmother (no offense to any actually tech savvy grandmothers out there), so sorry about the formatting issues.

The slave master regarded Brendon coldly. Sex slaves were always the lowest, the dirtiest, the most worthless. The slave master said nothing as he roughly yanked Brendon up to fasten the black leather collar tightly around his neck, before shoving the slave back down to his knees and stepping out of the cage with a disdainful look on his face, slamming the door shut. He felt nothing anymore. Brendon didn’t feel the abuse he suffered daily, he was broken.

Frank was shoved into his cage, already containing another naked boy on his knees, staring vacantly out at the flow of people wanting to buy a slave. Sex slave obviously. Only those were kept naked and on their knees, and this one was broken. Frank felt sorry for the other slave, except his master kicked him one final time, and with a cold glare, announced, “You’re not my responsibility anymore,” and he didn’t have the room to feel sorry for anyone over the cold rage that gripped him.

“Now, normally, it’s only two slaves to a cage.” Master leaned in close, his hot breath on Patrick’s ear. “But they’re a little pressed for space, and I think a tiny slut like you will survive,” Master sneered as he tightened the collar a notch too tight. “Be a good whore for your new master, will you?” The door slammed shut, locking him in with the other two slaves, one an equally short, tattooed man, and another man, staring with empty eyes from his position on his knees.

The short, tattooed man spoke first. “Who’re you?” he asked, voice completely toneless. “Household, or versatile?”  
Patrick hadn’t heard those terms before, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize what they meant. “Versatile,” he mumbled, barely audible. The tattooed man opened his mouth to say something, but abruptly snapped it shut as three guys walked up to their cage, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ryan groaned, reluctantly peeling himself off his enormous bed. Pete wanted them to get up at ass o’clock in the morning to avoid their parents, get the slave thing over with, and move out as fast as possible, and while yes, this reasoning was indeed _superb_ , he liked sleeping in a bit later than market opening time, 5 in the fucking morning. Half asleep, he stumbled to his closet, quickly picking out a white button down, black vest, and black slacks. Pete always complained he dressed too “fancily,” but coming from Pete Wentz, the guy who dressed in a fuck all fashion, that meant nothing.

Gerard stumbled into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he brought up last night’s dinner and kept dry heaving for a little while longer as his body tried to flush out the alcohol from last night. He knew drinking so much was a bad idea, but this morning had him nerve wracked. Yes, leaving was extremely appealing, but Gerard didn’t want anyone, even if it was just a lowly slave, to see him in his full worthlessness. He was still in his previous clothes, black skinny jeans with a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt, but it wasn’t too bad, and his head ached too much to change.

Pete, unlike the others, was up and raring to go. Insomnia was a bitch, and he’d had no sleep last night, and chugged down enough coffee to be bouncing off the walls for the next few hours, long enough to get the slave and crash at his new place. First thing he saw were black skinny jeans on top of a random shirt that read “Suck My Richard” or something like that. He wasn’t really focusing on that at the moment.

*30 Minutes Later*

“Hey,” Ryan grumbled flatly, furiously rubbing at half lidded eyes before replacing his sunglasses.

“Hi!” Pete was being an energetic little shit as usual, but Ryan could hear the tiredness in his voice, though sunglasses hid any possible dark bags under his eyes. Gerard trudged behind him with a far less enthusiastic greeting, but Ryan knew him well enough to recognize that he was hungover. He gave an internal sigh. They were so fucked. Truly and utterly fucked.

Pete led them past cages filled with the empty eyes and miserable sobs of shaking, terrified slaves, seeming unfazed, but he knew how much it bothered the short guy. Gerard suddenly dragged them to a halt, stopping in front of a cage stuffed a little too full, and Ryan’s attention instantly hooked on the naked sex slave kneeling in one corner. God, he was hot, with pale skin, dark hair, and those dreamy, chocolately brown eyes (even if they appeared broken and empty), plus a great looking ass. Ryan wasn’t one to leap for sex like Gerard did (hence the staring the platinum man was directing towards the slave), but this slave could have practically anyone watering at the mouth.

Ryan finally stopped ogling the sex slave enough to look up and see Pete frowning and switching his gaze between the tiny blond slave hunched over another corner of the cage, the other short, but slightly taller tattooed slave just sitting cross legged in the cage looking bored, and a few other healthy looking slaves in other cages. He hummed for a short moment before pointing to the tattooed slave and saying, “I want that one.”

Gerard surprised them both by speaking up. “You can have the blond one, but that one’s mine.” He brushed past Pete and Ryan and went up to the overseer, and quickly paid, and was handed a leash. Gerard slid into the cage and silently fastened to the leash to the slave’s collar, pulling him up and out of the cage. The slave was dressed only in ragged jeans, frayed holes in the knees, and he went silently, though Gerard did have to give a few harsh tugs occasionally, but the slave kept his head high.

Pete scowled, but paid for the blond slave after a few more decisive looks around. He seemed upset by something the overseer said, but gritted his teeth and fetched the slave, who flinched as soon as Pete came close. The short man murmured something reassuringly, but the slave refused to raise his gaze and shuffled behind Pete, head bowed, full of nervous twitches, finger taps, and general shakiness.

When Ryan approached his slave after paying for him, the man didn’t even twitch, eyes just as dull and broken as before. He obeyed instantly, rising and following Ryan without a protest, looking like the perfect slave, but Ryan didn’t want that. While he wasn’t exactly against slavery, he didn’t believe in this inhumane treatment. He wanted a little fire, rebellion, in his slave, like Gerard’s, except he’d been too busy staring hungrily at this one, so he supposed he’d have to sleep in the bed he made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Black Parade Gerard is suboptimal for an alcoholic, especially considering Three Cheers, but sue me, I’m a sucker for platinum Gee. This fic draws a lot of inspiration from other Slave AUs out there, but I wanted to make this one a little more angsty and dark and fail (miserably).


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adding two broken pieces together does not necessarily make a whole, as our boys have demonstrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I know it gets boring, but comments/kudos really do fuel this. Love you all. Also, somebody help, how do you do indents, this is bugging me.

Ryan really had no idea why he’d bought a sex slave. He was pretty sure he was demisexual, and thus the idea of fucking a slave, _trained_ to do this shit, was not appealing. He didn’t think Brendon (that was the slave’s name) really knew how to do anything other than what he was trained to do, and that’s just kneel there, looking expectant and just plain _broken_. Unreadable. Like his consciousness wasn’t even in this world anymore.

Ryan let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding, and finally shifted to face Brendon, still naked. “You can put some clothes on,” he told the slave. “I’ll get you some.” Before Ryan could leave, he caught Brendon’s expression, slow blinking and confusion. He smacked himself. Of course. Most sex slaves weren’t allowed clothes, and if they did, it was typically some stupid sexy looking lingerie or something. Ryan sighed and shook his head, heading into his room to dig out a plain black T-shirt and skinny black leather pants.

When Ryan returned bearing the all black clothing, Brendon was still in the same position, looking completely unfazed. Ryan also wished he hadn’t picked such a “well trained” one, because this attentive staring was just plain creepy at this point. “Here.” Ryan offered the slave the outfit, who slowly, hesitantly, took it, but just kept kneeling there. “You know you can go try it on right?” The question came out uncharacteristically unsteady, which was also frankly unnerving. Ryan backed away as Brendon shrugged the shirt on, the slave leaving his field of vision as Ryan noticed the way the shirt clung to the slave, revealing his lean stature.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Gerard honestly had no idea why he wanted the tattooed slave, Frank. He was household, not versatile, and Pete had told him Patrick was versatile, and now he was really regretting snatching this one, because the blond slave sounded pretty damn tempting right about now. Unfortunately, this one only did household chores, and he wasn’t sure he liked the way Frank held himself confidently, and would hesitate very slightly before carrying out orders.

“Get me something strong,” Gerard mumbled.

“No.”

Gerard looked up, shocked, and saw an expression of defiance on Frank’s face, tinged with fear, but he stood firm, arms crossed despite his short stature. He rose, and couldn’t help but catch the way terror flashed briefly across the slave’s face, as he took a subconscious step back. “Now.”  
Frank clenched his fists for a short moment, and Gerard _knew_ that this slave was _perfect_ for Pete with his little shit tendencies, but oh no, Gerard was an idiot and had to take Frank. Then he remembered something. The overseer had mentioned Frank had gotten quite a few whippings in the past, and showed pictures of all the scars lining his back, marring some tattoos that a previous master had forced him to get.

“Fine!” Gerard hissed, stalking forward until he had the slave pinned to the wall. “This one time. But you will obey me in the future or I’ll have you sold again. And the next one might not be so nice.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Pete only wanted Frank because he knew someone of that confidence, which many considered a bad quality in a slave, hence his cheap price, wouldn’t do well under Gerard, who seemed so depressed these days. He worried for his friend. He dragged his thoughts back to the present, back to the trembling blond slave he’d told to just get some rest and that he could eat anything he found in the pantry, but if Pete knew anything about the flinches Patrick made whenever he walked too close or if he had to pass the bedroom, then

Pete knew he’d find a restless Patrick and an untouched pantry.

Pete was right. He heard distant whimpering from the bedroom, and he suspected Patrick hadn’t even stepped foot into the kitchen, much less touched any of the still unopened boxes. He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. But he didn’t know how to comfort the slave, and he thought it would be best to give him some space.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Dallon picked up the phone with a tired sigh. “Yeah?” he asked listlessly, not even checking the caller ID.

“You okay?” Mikey’s concerned voice came in through the phone. Of course it was him and his concern.

“Of course,” Dallon tried to sound convincing, but he knew Mikey knew him better than to be fooled by that. “I’m fine.” Of course, all was not fine. Ray was STILL none the closer to finding Spencer, and every day that passed by, he worried he had forgotten him. No. Dallon couldn’t be thinking that way. He’d promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But I promise Frerard WILL happen, no, they will not hate each other for all eternity.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon doesn't understand his new Master...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the short chapter before, you get a full chapter of Ryden. Also, I’m absolutely horrible at noticing tenses, so if it randomly switches between present and past tense, sorry in advance. I wish this was longer, but I couldn't find a way to make this scene last longer.

Ryan seriously had _no_ idea what to do with Brendon. What does an uninterested person do with a sex slave? He supposed he had to try to heal him. He _did_ want to see just how beautiful Brendon would be with _life_ sparkling in those perfect brown eyes instead of the cold emptiness that currently resided. “Hey,” he said softly, sitting down next to Brendon, who he had to tell to sit down on the couch, and even now, looked slightly uncomfortable, knee jumping up and down, fingers tapping said jumping knee. He noticed Ryan watching and stilled immediately.

“It’s fine,” Ryan reassured Brendon with a smile, but he didn’t resume. “You can talk you know.”

“Would it please you if I did, Master?” Ryan started slightly at Brendon’s voice. Even if it was monotonous, it was beautiful. He had the fleeting thought that the slave could be a good singer. It sounded a bit unused at the beginning of his sentence, but quickly warmed up to a flawless waterfall-y type voice. Although the sentence itself was disconcerting.

“I want you to do what pleases you,” Ryan told Brendon. He just blinked, looking just as confused as when Ryan had handed him the stack of clothes. But he did have an adorable confused expression, like an innocent clueless puppy, and he even had this slight head tilt that only added to the effect.

“I don’t compute.” Brendon looked expectant, like he was waiting for something.

Ryan repeated his previous statement. “You don’t have to please me. I’m not like your previous masters.”

Ryan swore he saw something flash across Brendon’s face for a millisecond before it was replaced with the customary emotionless mask. “What do you like?” he asked, to get the ball rolling.

“Sex?” Brendon phrased the word as a half question, half flat statement.

Ryan wasn’t sure if he believed Brendon about that. “What else?” he pressed gently.

Brendon shrugged. He was playing with the hem of his shirt without realizing it, and Ryan made sure to be discreet about his observations so Brendon wouldn’t notice and stop, because they really were kind of cute. Jesus, Ryan thought. Brendon’s looks were almost unfair in their perfectness.

After about half an hour of fruitless questioning, Ryan had to give up or he was going to _die_ of frustration. Why wouldn’t Brendon open up to him? Couldn’t he see that Ryan was different? “You can do what you like,” he told an unresponsive Brendon. “I’ll be in my bedroom.” He decided to give it a little time.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Brendon didn’t understand his new Master. He didn’t seem to care about sex, or when Brendon hesitated to answer his question, and didn’t even seem to notice. Not that he cared. Ryan would crack eventually, take out all of his frustration at how useless and worthless Brendon was sooner or later in a night of angry sex that _hurt,_ but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Then the cycle would repeat.

Brendon didn’t know what to do. He suspected Ryan was sleeping upstairs in his bedroom, but he noted the boxes surrounding him. He never did housework, and he was afraid Ryan would hurt him if he touched any of his stuff. That was the one fear Brendon still had. Pain. It was duller now, he could take it, but he knew that pain meant he’d been bad. He’d learned to control the flinching whenever others approached, because the Masters _hated_ it, and he’d gotten punished for it so often, but pain still made him break down. And he couldn’t break down, or Master would hate him. Then he’d be sold again, and he’d lose the only constant in his life. Master.

Most days he was trapped in the basement or bedroom or whatever sating Master’s kinks, or at least he would kneel there and look pretty. That was his only redeeming quality. The only common thread between all the Masters. He was worthless, but pretty, they all said, usually during the high of an orgasm.

For now, he tentatively decides to test his new Master. See if he’s really not like the old ones. See, Brendon’s a bit of a masochist. He fears and loves pain at the same time, hence why he continues to “accidentally” screw up and get punished, though otherwise, he makes sure he’s the perfect whore for his Master.

Brendon pokes around through all the boxes, noting with confusion the absence of any toys in the boxes. Was he not into them? Brendon’s previous Masters had all loved to use _something_ on him, whether it was gags (he _hated_ things in his mouth), vibrators, or whips. Brendon shudders at the memory, his Trainer had him tied to a support beam, with that _awful_ dildo gag practically stabbing at his throat. Brendon hadn't been able to make a sound for a few days after that. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to not think about it. To settle back into that cold numbness, the indifference. Slowly, the familiar phantom stinging of the beatings faded away, and he stumbled into the kitchen, vision swimming.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ryan wakes up with an insatiable craving for ice cream. Thankfully, he bought this giant tub of it before he moved in, but when he checks the fridge, it’s _completely empty._ “What the fuck.” He checks the trash, and lo and behold, there is said ice cream tub. If Ryan’s being honest, he’s impressed Brendon actually managed to finish the whole goddamn tub, but he’s mostly irritated. He was fucking looking forward to this shit after he moved in!

He quietly stalks into the living room, where a sleeping Brendon is curled up looking _unfairly_ adorable. Ryan doesn’t have the heart to wake the slave up and yell at him, especially if he’s just going to get the most heartbreaking mix of a depressed puppy dog’s eyes and stoic coldness.

As Ryan’s musing over Brendon’s unfair cuteness, said slave is stirring, rubbing his eyes sleepily in a way that would probably be considered sexy by a homosexual, but he’s not, so he mostly finds it cute. “Why’d you eat all my ice cream?” Ryan asks in a carefully neutral voice.

Brendon blinks innocently, and oh god, he’s going to be the death of Ryan. “You said I could do anything, Master.”  
The term brings him to Earth again. “Don’t call me Master. It makes me feel weird. My name’s Ryan y’know.”

Brendon just blinks again, followed by a, “Yes, M-Ryan.” Well… it’s getting there.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Extremely baffled, Brendon watches Ryan walk away. Master (No, Ryan, he corrects himself) let him get away with it, despite the look of irritation Brendon caught before Ryan could wipe it away beneath an emotionless mask. He even told Brendon to call him Ryan, and treats him like an equal. Despite the guilt, Brendon shrugs, thinking he can use this to an advantage. But it’s not like he needs much. Either way, it’s a good backup option, Brendon thinks.

The ice cream helped, Brendon reflects. And the nap. After he’d finished scarfing it down, he felt calmer. His ADHD was acting up though. That was one of his qualities that Masters hated, so he tried to squash it down. But he remembers distantly Ryan smiling reassuringly and saying, “It’s fine,” when the nervous ticks started up. Of their own accord, his fingers had started tapping out rhythms on the patterns of the fabric on the couch. He’d curled up in a _mountain_ of cushions, feeling monumentally better as he drifted into sleep.

It shattered when he woke. Brendon just felt that empty void again as he stared up at the displeased face of Ryan. He’d disappointed him, been a bad pet. He needed to be punished like the naughty whore he is, so it’s infinitely shocking when Ryan just smiles and waves it off like Brendon had done nothing wrong. _Of course_ it’s wrong, so why isn’t Ryan getting mad? Brendon dismissed it, thinking Ryan’s just storing it away so he can take it all out on Brendon in one (or a few) night(s) of angry, kinky sex that left him bruised and sore for days. He had a few Masters like that. It didn't bother him anymore. So why did Ryan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brendon's a manipulative little shit, apparently.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard's _very_ confused about his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On an unrelated note: if my real life friends ever read this and go wtf, don’t judge.

Gerard’s steaming. Frank’s sheer _nerve_ is getting to him. The slave refuses to indulge his alcoholic or addict tendencies, and it’s making him pissed off and miserable at the same time, but he just can’t bring himself to hit him, both from the way Frank himself flinches slightly whenever Gerard approaches (but still looks infuriatingly defiant), or the way his parents’ slaves always looked so terrified, especially when his parents approached them. He knows it was because they beat their slaves.

But of course, there’s only so much the highly unpredictable Gerard can take, especially since he’s been too lazy to get off his ass and he’s depressingly sober and not high and hasn’t been laid in the past week, and that’s way too long.

“Why won’t you just fucking get me some beer or shit?” Gerard groaned into his pillow.

Frank’s defiant voice comes from out in the hallway where he’s picking up the shattered pieces of another one of Gerard’s tantrums. “Because I don’t want you killing yourself, surprisingly.”

Honestly, Gerard’s pretty shocked that Frank doesn’t want his asshole Master to die, but that’s quickly swallowed up in rage. It got him out of his bed in a heartbeat, and he throws the door open with a bang, and Frank looked up, startled, and flinched very slightly at the expression of anger on his face. “Why would you care so fucking much?” he screamed, lunging forward until Frank’s pinned against the wall. He jerked back, cowering, as Gerard continued screaming in frustration. “All I wanted was for you to obey! I haven’t even hit you yet!”

“Yet.” Gerard heard Frank mutter, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Gerard punched Frank in the jaw and shoved him away, storming down to the kitchen where he quickly opened up a bottle of vodka and started drowning in alcohol.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Frank fucking knew Gerard would snap soon, but he’d hoped anyways, foolishly, that Gerard would be different. Obviously not, he thought as he cradled his bruised jaw, felt the pulsing pain, but at least it was better than the brief explosion of it earlier. Frank just hoped he wasn’t going to get whipped. His scars opened up easily, and they’d gotten infected before, and his shitty immune system certainly didn’t help.

Frank sighed, knowing from the sounds of another bottle being opened and guzzled drifting up that he’s going to have to care for Gerard _again,_ and he won’t even fucking remember. Frank doesn’t know why he bothers, but peeked downstairs to see Gerard almost passed out. Someday the man is going to drink himself to death, and Frank wondered why he doesn’t wish for it to happen already. Maybe because he’s going to get sold again, to maybe an even more abusive master, or if it’s because he sees something in this man, beyond the alcoholic, addicted to drugs and sex shell that he hides in. Who knows?

Once Gerard’s drunken himself into unconsciousness, Frank heaves the heavy body of an unconscious Gerard up the stairs, which is one fucking challenging task, because that stereotype about unconscious bodies becoming somehow heavier? True, down to the last syllable. After maybe five minutes of grunting and dragging, Gerard’s finally in his massive king size bed, and Frank hesitates. This isn’t the first time Gerard’s thrown up all over himself, but it is the first time he was so drunk he missed the toilet.

Frank contemplated whether he should change Gerard out of his shirt or not, (thankfully his pants are fine, even if Frank doesn’t think skinny jeans are very comfortable to sleep in, but the dude’s dead to the world, so who knows) before deciding fuck it, sure. Slowly easing the man up, Frank hunted down another plain, loose black T-shirt (how many does the guy have?) and peeled the current one up, revealing pale, smooth skin. Frank’s knuckles accidentally brush against Gerard’s skin, and he swore he saw the man shiver slightly. Frank dismissed it as lack of sleep, everything was quivering slightly anyway. Frank wormed Gerard out of his shirt before awkwardly squirming him into the other shirt, which involved a shit ton of awkward touches.

When Frank finally finishes, he laid Gerard back down before yanking a blanket over him, gathering the dirty shirt, and carried downstairs and chucked it into the now full laundry basket. Oh joy, more chores, he thought sarcastically. He filled a glass full of water and grabbed a few pills and left them on Gerard’s nightstand, before starting up the washing machine. Then he has to cook something for breakfast in the morning, and he saw next to nothing food related left in the fridge, and Gerard’s been too drunk or high or whatever to shop lately, and the law doesn’t permit slaves to leave the house on their own. Not that he wants to, Frank thinks with a shudder. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerard wakes up to a pounding headache. His head feels like it’s going to split open, but he vaguely sees the fuzzy shape of what _could_ be a glass of water, and when his shaky hand closes itself around the shape, it confirms that it is indeed a glass of water. He focuses harder through the harsh pain in his temples and barely makes out pills next to the glass. Frank must have gotten them, he reasons, because Gerard never bothers with pills anymore. But he’s still thankful, and swallows down the pills and downs the water, feeling the pain clear slightly, but not completely.

Stumbling out of bed, he notes that he doesn’t remember one single fucking thing, except when he looks down he sees that he’s wearing _that_ shirt, with fucking _Patrick’s_ scent on it, that he swore he’d never touch again (Pete had him babysit his slave while he was out, and he couldn’t help but stare at the adorable tiny blond slave with his innocent baby like face, and be jealous of Pete, but long story short, he needed a new shirt, and Patrick was cute in the oversized T-shirt), a single memory comes rushing back at him. Knuckles brush against his side, and it felt _so good_ to the sex starved Gerard, even in his hazy, very-close-to-unconscious state, that he’d shivered. Fucking shivered when Frank had accidentally touched his skin when he’d been considerately changing Gerard out of his shirt (for whatever reason Gerard doesn’t know), and surprisingly, Gerard’s okay with it, despite the fact that this was a _household_ slave.

Gerard walks into the kitchen, passing a stack of neatly folded clothing, his, and smells pancakes. “We need more food,” Frank mumbles on his way past with another stack of his clothing. Gerard realizes he hasn’t gone grocery shopping in a week, and he’s surprised Frank managed to find anything to cook, but he’s grateful. There’s a plate of perfect little pancakes with the half-finished bottle of syrup in front of him, and his vision tunnels. Food sounds like a fucking great idea right now.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Gerard tells himself the only reason he’s bringing Frank along is because the slave would know what to buy so he can cook an edible meal for Gerard, but he’s absently noticed that Frank always picks out the meat from whatever he eats. Vegetarianism is extremely rare in slaves, since most aren’t given enough food for them to be picky about it, no matter their beliefs.

Either way, Frank looks extremely nervous, picking at the standard black leather collar all slaves are forced to wear. Some Masters get their slaves electric collars, but even Gerard’s parents weren’t heartless enough for that. It’s always a bit tight, and Gerard can hear the shallower-than-most breaths Frank sucks in before exhaling, but he knows he’s used to it. Frank was born into slavery, and has worn the thing for practically his entire life. Maybe Frank doesn’t do well with people, which could very well be true, with the amount of flinching the slave does whenever any Master comes close to him.

“I don’t care what you get, as long as it doesn’t expire, we can avoid coming back as long as possible, and that it tastes good,” Gerard grumbles, the killer headache still hasn’t completely gone away.

Frank nods minutely, before mumbling, barely audibly, “Can… can you come with me?”

Gerard lifts a confused eyebrow, before conceding. “Sure. Why?”

Frank is staring at the ground, but his breaths are a bit more obvious, and as an experienced victim of panic attacks, Gerard thinks he’s getting close to one, or at least the hyperventilating stage. “I don’t do well around people,” he mumbles, flushing. It’s one of the few moments Frank lets his vulnerability show, and while he’s not _broken_ like Patrick and Brendon are (God, if Gerard has to listen to another one of Ryan’s frowny murmurings, or Pete’s concerned mumblings, he’s going to go nuts), though sometimes in some morally questionable moments he wishes Frank was, he’s not as invincible as he’ll have you believe.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The shopping turns out to be fairly uneventful, with few near breakdowns and Gerard just daydreams while Frank picks out things to his approval. He’s not seeking appreciation, just the avoidance of trouble.

When Frank gets home, he unloads all the groceries into the pantry as quickly as possible, grateful that all of Gerard’s sleeping in means he’s mostly unpacked everything, and Gerard told him how to rearrange it during one afternoon, so less work now. Gerard completely ignores him as Frank slinks off to the bathroom.  
There’s a few razor blades for Gerard’s razor, and he takes it, thumbing the cold metal and the sharp edge, flushing the skin red. Every person in that store, every breath took him back to the mugging. His Master died, he was sold, and the _awful_ knife tracing his throat, bringing blood to the surface of the skin like the razor was doing to his thumb. Just a _little_ more pressure, and the skin would tear like wet tissue paper, and the dark red blood would slide out in little droplets. But he could only make tiny shallow cuts, otherwise they would scar over and Master would notice and yell and beat him, infinitely worse than cutting. He can’t. Gerard wouldn’t like it. Frank hears Gerard call for him from downstairs and frowns, tucking the razor blade away and going down to see what Gerard wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn’t feeling the inspiration too much, so it’s kinda meh, but I wanted to get this out there. I dunno, do you prefer it possibly being better and waiting a few days longer, or getting it now? Also, should I introduce Twenty One Pilots as more side characters, or as another pairing? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Don’t be afraid to tell me my writing’s not that great, because how else am I supposed to make it better? I won’t get offended, there’s only so much a 12 year old is capable of and I’m aware I pale in comparison to many other writers on this site.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete comforts Patrick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might slow to one every few days (only like 2-3 though), because I want to take some time to make each chapter better.

Pete can’t sleep through the soft whimpers coming in through the thin wall. He sighs, and gets up, sympathetic to the slave. It’s not like he was going to sleep, his insomnia was acting up again, so he wasn’t too bothered by this interruption. It was better than lying in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling, memories tormenting him, and depression is probably coming back for another round sooner or later, so he gets up and quietly pads into the hallway, listening from outside Patrick’s door for a short while.

The broken sobs have stopped, but Pete can still hear the faint, miserable sniffing. He contemplates knocking for a short moment, but suspects this will just make Patrick panic. A month has passed, and the poor slave hasn’t stopped flinching every time Pete comes close, and the first time Pete offered a bedroom for Patrick he’d misinterpreted it and the look of sheer panic and horror had made Pete quickly reassure him he didn’t need to if he didn’t want to. Pete had gathered enough to realize his mistake.

Quietly, Pete slides in, but Patrick notices the door opening and looks up with those big, fearful round blue eyes, shining with tears. He’s been clutching his tear soaked pillow like a lifeline, and breathing extremely rapidly, on the verge of a panic attack if he isn’t already.

                “Hush, it’s okay,” Pete comforted, crossing the room slowly. He placed a tentative hand on Patrick’s shoulder, rubbing softly, and he relaxed minutely under the soothing motions, but remained tense and shaking. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.” Patrick still didn’t relax, burying his face in the pillow, muscles jumping about in short spastic bursts.

                Pete doesn’t respond, just letting slowly rubbing Patrick’s back in what he hopes is a soothing matter, at a loss at whatever else he’s supposed to do. He hasn’t had such a full blown panic attack like this in so long he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing to help. “Do you need anything?” Pete asks quietly, making his tone soft and comforting.

                Patrick shakes his head slightly, his panting slowly easing back to normal, and Pete can feel that Patrick’s slightly less tense than before, and very slowly relaxing. Pete quietly murmurs low, soothing coos to help ground Patrick, make him feel safe for a short moment.

It works for a brief five minutes before Patrick’s tensing up again, and Pete sighs, before panicking as he realizes that sigh seemed to be speeding up the build of another panic attack. “No,” Pete tells Patrick, softly but firmly, and Patrick tries to fight it down, but it defies him. “Don’t panic. I promise I won’t hurt you. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Patrick continues whimpering for a short moment as Pete cards his fingers through the blond strands sticking to his forehead, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. Finally, _finally_ , Patrick croaks out, stuttering, “I… I’m s-s-scared y-you’ll hu-“ A hiccup interrupts his speech. “h-h-hurt m-m-e.”

Pete feels his heart wrench in sympathy. He knows no Master likes a crybaby for a slave, so he must have been _terrified_ when Pete walked in on his sobbing, and feared a greater punishment, which only made the panic attack worse, going around and around in a vicious cycle.

“I’ll never hurt you,” Pete whispered softly. “I promise.” Pete was hesitant to make that promise, but he knew he had to, he just hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. Someday, depression was going to crawl up behind him without Pete even realizing, and he didn’t know if he can keep his promise then, and if Patrick breaks because of it, he’ll never forgive himself.

Patrick quiets, but doesn’t relax completely. Pete suspects the slave has trust issues and doesn’t believe him. He sighs and continues, “I’ll do almost anything to prove it to you. You can eat anything, do anything, but you might have to help me with chores because I’m horrible at them.” Pete chuckles softly, and feels Patrick ease ever so slightly. “D’ya want me to stay?”

Patrick hesitates, and Pete adds on, “I don’t mind, you weren’t keeping me up. I have insomnia.” He seems to think it over for a minute, before slowly shaking his head, looking scared of something. Disappointment? Anger? Who knew how the slave’s mind worked. “It’s okay,” Pete comforted. “Sweet dreams,” he muttered, closing the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Patrick’s so _conflicted_ he just continues to stare slack jawed at the closed door. His Master just came in, saw him _bawling his eyes out_ , but did nothing but comfort him while anxiety and sheer fear wracked his body, and promise not to hurt him. Patrick didn’t believe him, but he hoped Pete would maintain the façade as long as possible. All Masters snapped eventually. They all promised they wouldn’t hurt him, and eventually, after Patrick foolishly trusted them, they snapped, and beat him, or they’d ordered him to the bedroom and told him to wait there, and he’d kneel on the bed, feeling terrified of what would happen next. Pete hadn’t even been too bothered when he’d frozen up at the mention of a bedroom, even when he’d just been offering one for Patrick, _alone_ , or on the first day, Pete had just left Patrick alone while he’d cried.

                But the worst part was, Patrick swore he wouldn’t trust this Master. He wouldn’t let himself be hurt again. So why was his brain so against that? Why did it constantly chant, _Trust Pete. Let him take care of you. Just relax_ , while Pete’s hands had rubbed soothingly at the tensed muscles in his back. Patrick shudders at the memory of the panic attack. He hadn’t had one that bad since _forever_ , he can’t even remember.

It’d been a vicious cycle of nerves that led to the initial anxiety, but when he began to anticipate Pete walking in on him, the nerves grew until he started hyperventilating, and this repeated until he was whimpering. When Pete _had_ walked in, his fear multiplied tenfold, and he just started crying and shuddering and kept imagining horrifying scenes of Pete beating him, or just going down on the versatile slave right then and there to get him to shut up, and he just couldn’t stop _breaking down_. It continued to grow exponentially as Pete shocked him with a gentle touch that he imagined as a harsh blow, involuntarily flinching. Each murmured word sounded like a cruel insult, calling him a lowly whore, a lazy fatass of a servant.

Slowly Pete’s words and gentle hands broke through, and he managed to calm down after a near repeat. Pete hadn’t looked offended at Patrick’s confession, which honestly blew his mind, but he dismissed it as Pete storing it away to unleash eventually. Patrick took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose, repeating the breathing excercises a kind (until he snapped) Master had taught him, until he fell into a light, fitful sleep tortured with nightmares even Pete’s reassuring words couldn’t break him out of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for the delay. I got a little too caught up reading other fanfictions to attend to mine.


	7. NOT A CHAPTER

I know, I know, everyone says it, they hate author's notes in lieu of the desperately awaited (I flatter myself) chapter but I'm still working up the motivation to actually dig through my school binder, plug in the stupid flash drive and actually open the goddamn document, and I wanted to let everyone know. And you're going to be very disappointed by the word count. But I did warn for infrequent/irregular updates. Again, sorry for the unexplained hiatus, but it should be over soon and my stupid tablet keyboard keeps eating up all my comments and I lose even more motivation.


	8. I know I'm a shitty person

Basically, I want to rewrite this. This whole thing was written in a half asleep daze, and I know those can usually end up pretty good, this was an exception. I'm not liking where I took this when I was so swamped with school work and basically desperate to get another chapter out. I was going for quantity over quality and even if it ended up decent (apparently), that's still not a good mentality to continue functioning under. It's still going to be a slave AU, because that's probably my favorite AU, but theoretically better. Theoretically.

 

Now, I can't decide whether I want to do Ryllon, Brallon, or a threesome with that, bring the two pairings together. Frerard shall remain the same, as will Peterick, though I'm not going to do the one side buys the other as a slave, because frankly that was just from reading Lonely, Lonely Little Life by oh_ms_omegalomaniac (which you should totally read, it's awesome, it's what this was inspired by) while in aforementioned half asleep daze (induced by reading far too much fanfic for my own good).

 

Tl;dr-

Rewrite

New ships

-Ryllon? Brallon? Both in a threesome that should have been done a long time ago?

New plot (sort of)

Same-ish AU

Read Lonely, Lonely Little Life (I can't link for shit sorry)

**Author's Note:**

> Backstory. Actual plot or whatever starts next chapter. I don’t have the actual plot outlined, and this is kind of a spur of the moment thing, so there’s literally no guarantee of this even continuing, but comments and kudos would certainly help with motivation. However, with the shit that is called school/homework plus the fact that I would rather role play and/or read fanfiction instead of writing this out equals likely irregular and infrequent updates. I will try my best, and enjoy. Also despite being a massive grammar Nazi, this isn’t beta-d, and I can’t catch all mistakes, so I don’t mind if you point them out.


End file.
